


Goodness Gracious Great balls of Granite, Geralt

by ThePiningTrees



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward!Geralt, Because the long version proved too big of a challenge to write, Crack, Delighted!Jaskier, Don't touch the balls Jask, Fluff and Humor, Geralt is a good friend, He is going to touch them, M/M, Meet the Family, Oblivious Jaskier, Of course Jaskier is the source of the chaos, One Shot, Sexual Tension, Slice of Life, The title is a direct quote from the game I KID YOU NOT, hurt geralt, oblivious Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePiningTrees/pseuds/ThePiningTrees
Summary: Geralt goes to the temple of Melitele in Ellander to visit Mother Nenneke, his sort-of-adoptive-mother who cared for him when he was a child. A brazingly handsome young bard tags along and in the temple garden someone’s granite genitalia causes a stir.What even is Geralt’s life.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93





	Goodness Gracious Great balls of Granite, Geralt

“Oh, Holy, _Holy_ Melitele! Is this the absolute best day of my life? Geralt, can I—can I just take a gander…?” Jaskier hastily bent down, alarmingly low and close to his recent object of interest, giving Geralt a probable preview of what it would be like to have Jaskier stay for any length of time in his childhood home away from home.

“Goodness gracious, great abnormally sized balls of granite,” the bard mumbled in awe as he shamelessly took in the sight of the man-sized statue’s genitals. “Great width. Although I should say circumference, if there’s even a medical term to describe a set of inanimate balls. Is there?”

He gave one of his charming smiles over his shoulder. Geralt looked to the sky—why did Jaskier always have to sound like an expert no matter what the subject was? He wanted to pull Jaskier back from putting his nose in the statue’s groin, but he hesitated to touch the younger man.

“You don’t visit mothers very often, do you?” Geralt groused from the unexpectedly unearthed place of pending mortification. His gaze flickered haphazardly up the path, and then to some rose bushes. Not that he expected Nenneke to materialize out of nowhere like some deranged spectre, but he had learned from an early age to not ever underestimate her. 

“I wonder though,” Jaskier kept saying with a private smile, overjoyed even more than before by Geralt’s pained face, “would a professional healer diagnose these balls as healthy, life-baring ones, or painfully engorged? Could you imagine walking around with this dangling weight all day long, I’d get back pain…” the bard licked his lips and tentatively reached out two fingers as if to lift the aforementioned objects, “What even is the average size of—”

_“Do not touch that statue, young man!”_

Even Geralt froze when the female, elderly voice cut through the air. Jaskier wobbled, fighting for balance in his crouched position, before putting a hand down on the path and pushing himself up to his feet. Geralt opened his eyes when he felt the bump of the bard hiding behind his back.

Jaskier peered over his shoulder. “Geralt, who the fuck is that?”

The witcher wondered if Melitele would grant him a pass if he renounced himself from ever knowing the bard. Probably not. “Mother Nenneke,” he answered, and the compassion in his voice must have shocked Jaskier into calming down, because he dared to step away from the other’s back.

A woman came walking towards them on the path leading up to the temple. She was elderly and short in stature—didn’t even reach Jaskier to the armpit, he wagered—but with a presence of strength and authority in her step. She wore a well-kept indigo robe that was tied beneath her heavy bosom, and a mild look of contempt in her sharp gaze as they landed on the bard.

Jaskier gulped, then breathed out in relief when the woman turned to the witcher and a smile softened her features. “Geralt.”

She held out her arms. Geralt hesitated—a quick look at Jask, why again had he allowed him to tag along—before sighing and stepping into the motherly embrace.

Nenneke patted his arms, briefly expecting the tears in his leather shirt, and moved up to his face, where she clinically inspected what she could see of his face from her lower point of view. Geralt impatiently stood still as she narrowed her eyes at the recently inflicted cuts, courtesy of a bruxa’s claws, running down his cheek and temple, and the clammy, slightly paler skin in stark contrast to the blood-crusted scars.

She whispered a curse that the bard hadn’t expected coming from a priestess’ lips.

“You’re sick.”

Geralt gently removed her hand, aware that the bard was listening in.

“Scratches,” he assured her with a pale smile. Her small hand felt cool and familiar in his rougher palm, just like when her hand had washed the fever-induced sweat from his forehead when he was a child. A child on the brink of death. “Nenneke, this is—”

“Even more reason to be concerned,” Nenneke stated, her tone calm and unaffected by the interruption, even though she must have noticed his emotion. “Your reactions have not been as quick lately, am I wrong?”

Geralt sighed, feeling the weight of his last contract heavily on his shoulders. “Must we do this now? I came here, didn’t I.” He gestured the saddle-bag he carried on his shoulder. “I’m out of stock and I missed your company.”

“Aw,” Jaskier said somewhere to his left.

They both turned their attention to the bard, discovering he had stepped closer to the statue.

Mother Nenneke pointed a crooked finger in his direction. “You boy, keep your distance to that statue or you will thoroughly regret it.” She looked him up and down. “I expect you to possess a basic amount of self-discipline.”

“I wouldn’t wage anything valuable on it,” the witcher said under his breath.

The bard looked at him in dismay, tender blue eyes widening dramatically until Geralt was sure he could fit the sky in them. “Oh, that’s rich! Coming from you, the walking epitome of self-restraint. How fortunate you’ve been so far, that your mother doesn’t know exactly the number of times that _you_ have forsaken your indomitable work ethic to plow—" he deflated as he caught the priestess looking at him again. “Hello…? Geralt’s mom which I’m now realizing. You must wonder who I am. I swear I am not robbing you of your…”—he gestured nervously to the statue—"collection. It must matter a great deal to you.”

Geralt snorted. Nenneke shook her head minutely, an act of effortless mild dismissal, and turned back to trudge up the path back to the temple gates. “No need to bother with introductions, bard. I’ve heard of you, in great length, in fact.”

“You have? Since when?”

Jaskier looked after her with a furrowed brow. A brow that gradually resumed its smooth and carefree state when the bard’s own ego served him with a plausible enough explanation. Plausible, albeit less true. “Oh, my _songs._ My lovely, quick-witted songs. I can’t believe the fruit of my hard labor has grown in popularity enough to penetrate the walls of a temple! And a temple devoted to the goddess of _fertility_ , nonetheless!”

He laughed breathlessly and was pleased to receive a supportive (well, lenient, or even amused) smile from the witcher. It was hard to read the man at times, and Jaskier was unpracticed in the skill of reading Geralt’s smiles considering how rarely they made an appearance. The witcher shook his head, a less refined imitation of the old woman’s, and went ahead.

Jasker left the statue to its perpetual state of sun-bathed nakedness and laughed conspiratorially to himself. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when… he didn’t know _why_ , but he was going to touch it before he left.


End file.
